He Called Me Gold Digger, Now He Can't Let Go

At his place, Asher couldn't get Charlie's words out of his head. Before he knew it, his feet were taking him upstairs. He was driven by a pull he couldn't resist, going straight toward his bedroom with Scarlett. The space looked the same as before—her clothes still neatly arranged, the bed perfectly made. Only the desk felt different. Something lay there, stark against the polished wood—a document. Asher's expression shifted slightly. He crossed the room in a few long strides and picked it up. It was a divorce agreement. His eyes swept over the lines. Scarlett's name was already scrawled at the bottom, bold and certain. His chest tightened. He hadn't expected her to have signed the divorce papers already. For a while, he stood motionless, then pulled out his phone and tapped her number. The dial tone droned—once, twice—long, hollow echoes that stretched into silence before the call disconnected on its own. She wasn't answering the call. Asher's gaze lingered on the dark screen, his expression unreadable, before he slid the phone back into his pocket. Maybe it was better this way. If Scarlett had chosen to walk away, her absence would spare them both unnecessary complications, especially now that Nora was returning to his life. Telling himself that, Asher put the document away. Time moved on, and a month had slipped by. Asher was stretched thin, dividing his time between running the company and visiting Nora at the sanatorium. Nora's health had stabilized, yet her reliance on him deepened with each visit. He seldom thought of Scarlett, but sometimes, when he looked into Nora's eyes, an unbidden image would surface in his mind—Scarlett's face. He didn't know why. "Sir, we're here." The driver's voice shattered Asher's reverie. The car had halted before the police station. Asher had come here in person to obtain copies of some files for Nora's further medical treatment. No matter how busy he was, he made time for this because of Nora. The station chief met him at the entrance and personally escorted him inside. As they passed the interrogation wing, Asher's steps suddenly faltered. A voice drifted toward him—soft, familiar, enough to twist something deep in his chest. "Yeah, I've arrived." He turned toward the sound. Even from a glimpse of her profile, Asher knew instantly—it was Scarlett. A flicker of confusion cracked his usual composure. What was Scarlett doing here? He smoothed his expression before anyone could notice and asked casually, "Who's that?" One of the officers walking alongside him answered, "That's Ms. Scarlett Riley. She's here assisting us on a case." As he spoke, they were already in the observation room outside the interrogation room. A handcuffed man sat silently at the interrogation table. "The suspect's meticulous about covering his tracks. We've been on this case for months without solid evidence," the officer continued. "Ms. Riley's a renowned hypnotist. She often works with us. Hypnosis helps subjects relax; they tend to speak freely, and even buried memories can surface. It's invaluable for drawing out critical details fast." Hypnosis? Asher's face remained composed, but a ripple of surprise stirred beneath the surface. When had Scarlett mastered something like that? Unaware of Asher watching her, Scarlett stepped into the interrogation room, notebook in hand. She eased into the chair across from the suspect, her posture unhurried, her expression calm enough to melt tension. A faint, almost friendly smile touched her lips as she spoke. "Good evening, Mr. Burgess. I'm only here to help with the investigation. There's no reason for you to be nervous." Her voice carried a gentle lilt, warm as velvet, coaxing him to let his guard slip. The suspect, Kayce Burgess, squirmed slightly, his mouth set in a firm line. He looked uncomfortable, but nowhere near as guarded as he'd been in front of the police officers. "I didn't do it. I didn't kill anyone, I promise. You've got the wrong man." Though his words came out steady, the white-knuckled fists hidden beneath the table betrayed the tremor of unease he couldn't mask. Scarlett inclined her head in quiet acknowledgment, studying him with patient eyes. She noticed that a flash of something feral—sharp and mean—flickered in his gaze before vanishing. She leaned forward slightly, lowering her tone to a soothing murmur that slipped under his defenses. "Don't worry—the police won't accuse an innocent man, and we'll make sure the guilty one can't slip away. Mr. Burgess, there's no need to be anxious in front of me. Just breathe and try to relax." After speaking, she slipped a silver pocket watch from her coat, letting it dangle between her fingers before setting it into a slow, rhythmic swing. Kayce shifted in his chair, unease coiling tight in his stomach. Still, his gaze betrayed him—drawn helplessly to the pendulum's steady arc. "Easy now. Keep watching. Let your thoughts quiet down..." Scarlett murmured, her voice smooth and hypnotic. Within moments, the tension drained from Kayce's shoulders, his pupils dilating slightly as the resistance in his eyes softened. At that moment, Scarlett said, "Tell me, what's your name?" "Ka... Kayce Burgess," Kayce answered sluggishly, his tone dazed, no trace of defiance left. Scarlett gave a subtle nod to the officer at her side, and he started to take notes. She then turned back to Kayce, her voice calm yet firm. "Kayce, tell me honestly—where were you on the afternoon of the twentieth last month?" "At home," Kayce replied. Scarlett's tone softened but carried weight. "And what about Bruce Palmer? Where was he at that time?" The name landed like a spark on dry tinder. Kayce stiffened, a shudder rippling through his shoulders. Beads of sweat broke across his forehead as his fingers twitched uncontrollably against the tabletop. "To hell with him! He deserves to die!" The words burst out raw and jagged, Kayce's voice cracking under the strain. Scarlett's brows drew together in tension. Kayce's sudden volatility made it clear this wasn't a straightforward case. Otherwise, his reaction to that name wouldn't be so intense. Keeping her tone calm, she spoke with quiet reassurance. "Take a breath. Calm down. Bruce is dead now, right?" As she spoke, she lit a small scented candle. It had the same fragrance as the ones Kayce had at home. The air was filled with its gentle warmth, the sweet orange scent said to have been his daughter's favorite. The familiar aroma washed over Kayce, softening the tension in his shoulders and stilling the tremor in his hands. He sank back into a more coherent state and, before Scarlett could press further, began to speak on his own. "Mia... Dad has done it. You will get your revenge soon. That bastard's going to die—in the worst way." His lips twisted into something like a smile. "I will watch him take his last breath. When he's gone, Dad will join you." The officer, who had been jotting down notes, lit up with shock and excitement. For weeks, everyone had assumed Bruce was already dead—the entire session was meant to uncover where his body had been hidden. Now, the implication that he might still be alive sent a jolt through the officer. Scarlett leaned in, her voice soft. "What are you planning to do to him?" she asked.